


Breakfast in Bed

by 2ndbreakfasts



Series: The Sebastian and Sarah Vael Collection [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: "Breakfast" in Bed, Age Difference, Arranged Marriage, BioWare, Breakfast in Bed, Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, Dragon Age Lore, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mirror Sex, Morning Sex, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Sebastian says "lass" a lot, Starkhaven is basically fantasy Scotland, Vaginal Sex, What the fuck is a "chaste marriage"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ndbreakfasts/pseuds/2ndbreakfasts
Summary: Prince Sebastian Vael almost never missed the first Chant of the day. Of course, he had also never been married before.Takes place immediately afterA Princess for Starkhaven.





	Breakfast in Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a long time since I came out with [A Princess for Starkhaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7856572) (if you haven't read it yet, please read it first for context, as this story takes place immediately after that one), but I've always been meaning to add to Sebastian and Sarah's story. As with the first one, I worked hard to make this story lore-friendly; all notes on lore and languages can be found in the end notes. I hope you enjoy this (relatively long) one-shot!

_3rd of Kingsway 9:42 Dragon_

_Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!_

Mother Eugenia frowned as the bells of the Starkhaven Cathedral tolled their second chorus of the day. As the younger of the two Mothers in the chapel of the Winterstone Palace, the ancestral residence of the Vael family, she had been relegated to the unenviable responsibility of presiding over the first Chant at seven bells every morning. And today, the usual meager congregation—mostly palace servants who wanted to get their weekly obligation to the Maker out of the way before commencing their morning duties—was already missing a regular face.

_Where is Prince Sebastian? It is not like him to miss the first Chant. The only time he’s missed the Chant was during his worst bout of frost-cough last winter, and even then he insisted on attending until he grew too weak. Could the Prince have taken ill during the night? Or the Princess? Or both?_

Chanter Desmond cleared his throat and looked expectantly at her, asking for permission to start. She took one last look at the Prince's empty oak pew at the back of the chapel. Although the front pew was traditionally reserved for the royal family, the Prince, who towered over most people, always insisted on sitting in the back so he didn't obstruct anybody's view.

Despite the less-than-ideal schedule with which she had been saddled, the Prince’s constant presence at _her_ Chant—and not the _insufferable_ Revered Mother Gertrude’s noon Chant—was admittedly a point of pride for her. Today, she had hoped to finally see him in the front pew with his little wife Sarah, the newly crowned Princess of Starkhaven, in tow.

_Something truly awful must have happened. Perhaps I'll check up on the Prince and Princess later. If they cannot come to the Chant, then the Chant will come to them._

Mother Eugenia sighed, before nodding back at Chanter Desmond. She walked to the center of the dais to address the small assembly. “Good morning, brothers and sisters. Today, we will be chanting from Part Twelve of the Canticle of Transfigurations. Chanter Desmond will lead us as we raise our voices in praise to the Maker...”

*****

Unbeknownst to Mother Eugenia, nothing awful had happened to the royal couple. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Instead, Sebastian and Sarah, both clad in their dressing robes, were enjoying a leisurely breakfast in bed. A remarkably foresighted servant—perhaps at the bidding of Sebastian’s ever capable seneschal, Lord Roderick MacLeod—had left trays with breakfast for two in their antechamber.

Aside from the traditional Starkhaven morning fare to which Sebastian was accustomed—freshly baked bannocks with gooseberry jam, hot parritch with a pat of butter, and a brass pot of thistle tea sitting cozily atop its own burner—there was also a smorgasbord of Antivan delicacies intended to please his new bride's palate: Trevisan pepper-brined olives, slices of dry-cured ham and thick hot chocolate from Seleny, plump red grapes harvested from the vineyards of Sarah's family in Rialto, and a pungent, creamy, bloomy-rinded cheese from Salle that made Sebastian recoil with disgust and Sarah clap her hands with delight.

“You're supposed to eat the Camberto de Salle with the grapes, you silly Chantry boy,” she laughed as she used a thin, small-bladed knife to smear the soft cheese on a bannock before lifting it to her nose and breathing deeply. “Ah, _los pies del Hacedor,_ ” she said with a near-orgasmic sigh, “it’s almost as if I’m back in Rialto.”

“Los _what_?”

“ _Los pies del Hacedor_ ,” she enunciated slowly as she plucked an uncommonly plump grape. “The feet of the Maker. The Antivan poet Léon-Pablo Ferrer once described the aroma of Camberto de Salle as such.”

He chuckled, refilling her dainty tea cup with more hot chocolate. “I’m fairly sure that’s blasphemous, lass.”

She laughed as she bit into her bannock. “Blasphemous? You didn’t seem too concerned about profaning the Maker last night when you…” She cut herself off abruptly before she could allude to the vigorous exertions of their wedding night. With a furious blush coloring her cheeks, she popped the grape into her mouth.

“Never mind. Uncultured swine,” she muttered, her nose wrinkling with mock disdain.

_Maker, why is she so adorable?_

He shook his head and reached for a bannock. “All right, lass. For you, I will brave the feet of the Maker.” He mimicked her earlier actions, smearing the soft cheese on the bannock before plucking a grape. “I eat them together?” he asked.

She nodded. “Normally you don’t eat Camberto de Salle with grapes, but with apples, pears, or almonds. However, the unique tartness and sweetness of the grapes from Rialto, which borders Salle just to the west, make them go perfectly with Camberto.”

He considered her words and gave his cheese-smeared bannock a cautious sniff. The smell was one he could only describe as a cross between a barnyard and an herbalist’s stillroom. How anyone could consider something so repugnant a delicacy was beyond his ken. He cast an apprehensive glance at his wife, her doe eyes wide with nervous anticipation.

_Sweet Andraste, those lovely eyes will be my undoing._

He raised the bannock to his lips and took a bite.

*****

“You there, serah, have you seen the Prince and the Princess this morning?”

With the morning Chant concluded, Mother Eugenia had exited the palace chapel and, by the Maker’s providence, chanced upon a footman pushing a service trolley just as she shut the door.

The footman bowed respectfully before addressing her. “Their Highnesses are taking breakfast in their chambers, Mother Eugenia. Lord MacLeod informed Mrs. MacKenzie early this morning that Her Highness was feeling under the weather after the festivities yesterday, and that His Highness wished to remain at her side. Lord MacLeod asked Mrs. MacKenzie to prepare breakfast trays to be brought up to them. I took the trays up myself a little over an hour ago.”

“Did you see the Princess when you delivered the trays? Did she look very ill?”

The footman shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mother Eugenia, but I didn’t see either of them. Lord MacLeod left strict instructions not to disturb Their Highnesses and to deposit the breakfast trays in their antechamber. I assumed it was because whatever illness befell Her Highness might be contagious.”

_Maker have mercy, it is as I feared._

Mother Eugenia’s lips straightened into a tight, severe line and nodded once. “Thank you, serah, that will be all. May the Maker watch over you.”

The footman gave her another impeccably correct bow before wheeling his service trolley down the hall. Mother Eugenia watched him go as she pondered her options. It wouldn’t hurt to ingratiate herself with the new Princess this early. If she did, perhaps she might even see her at the first Chant alongside the Prince in the front pew.

_If the Princess is truly ill, I should let her rest and recuperate, but… surely it would be good form to visit her? Perhaps I could bestow the Maker’s blessing to help her heal. The Prince would certainly appreciate such a gesture, given how devout he is._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of cutlery and porcelain being dispensed, heralding the start of breakfast in the nearby Great Hall, where visiting dignitaries, local nobles, and anyone else in the palace who was not strictly designated as a servant took their meals. The thought of a cup of piping hot thistle tea and a slice of Mrs. MacKenzie’s famous fish-and-egg pie involuntarily sent her feet on the most expeditious route to the Great Hall.

_Well, perhaps the Maker’s blessing can wait until after breakfast._

*****

_Maker’s breath. This is incredible._

Sebastian stared at Sarah, then at the half-eaten bannock in his hand.

The smooth, velvety Camberto melted on his tongue and tasted nothing like how it smelled. The flavor was complex, at once nutty, fruity, earthy, and mushroomy, but not overpoweringly so. The sweet, tart Rialto grapes only served to complement, if not heighten, the taste of the cheese.

His eyes fluttered shut as he took another bite of his bannock and ate another grape, savoring the mingling of flavors on his tongue. He didn’t see his wife’s watchful gaze fixated on his face, didn’t see the knowing smirk forming on her lips.

“You like it! See? I told you it was good.”

Sebastian opened his eyes and glanced back at her, now happily smearing another bannock with more Camberto. Seeing her look so transparently pleased made him feel a lightness in his heart, even when it came at his expense. He put on the best, most overdramatic expression of disgust he could muster and shook his head. “Like it? Oh no, lass, I detest it. Absolute shite.”

She laughed, a wonderfully buoyant sound that tugged effortlessly at Sebastian’s heartstrings. She had a laugh like sunshine. “Did you not say last night that the Maker abhors lying? Or shall I add that to your list of sins to atone for?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, genuinely curious. “We’ve been married for less than a day and I already have a _list_? And what, pray tell, is on my list of transgressions, lass?”

“Well, aside from lying about how you feel about the cheese,” she said, plucking another grape from the nearly empty stem, “you didn’t kiss me good morning.”

When he didn’t reply, she looked up at him and saw the transparent shock stamped on his noble features. Had she gone too far? Considering everything they had shared the night before, she found the notion highly unlikely. Still…

He drained his tea cup with one gulp. “That is… a very grievous offense, indeed,” he said, rising from the bed. “I think… I think I’m done with breakfast. What about you, _leannan_? Has your appetite been satisfied?”

Despite having been intimate with him only once, she was perceptive enough to feel the desirous shift in his mood by the way he spoke. He had stopped calling her “lass,” switching to his favored term of endearment for her in his cradle tongue. The rest of his words were innocent enough, but the way he said them, with his smooth Starkic brogue and his voice evocatively low, sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

_He could read the entirety of Karsten Groeke’s_ What is Green? _and his lovely voice would make it sound like a bloody masterpiece._

She gathered her wits enough to manage a nod. He picked up the heavier breakfast tray and carried it to the table by the fireplace where they played Wicked Grace the previous night. Without thinking, she took the other tray and followed him.

The moment she set down her tray next to his with a muted clang, he deftly slipped his hand underneath her peignoir’s silk belt and spun her around, pulling her toward him. The endearing little squeak she made whenever she was caught off-guard was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds.

In truth, he had entertained the idea of kissing her the moment she woke up. With the light of the morning sun dancing on her golden skin, she was, in Sebastian’s eyes, a vision of unsurpassable loveliness. He had wanted to take her in his arms and acquaint her with the many sensual benefits of waking up next to him. However, her rumbling tummy had quashed any prurient notion he might have had and sent him on a quest for breakfast—a quest that, courtesy of the conveniently placed breakfast trays in their antechamber, didn’t last long.

He drew her close to him and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Will you permit me to atone for my sins, _leannan_?” His voice was husky and made no secret of his desire. It was difficult to ignore the evidence, already rock hard and pressed against her stomach.

_How long has he been aroused like this?_

“Th-that depends. You’re lucky I haven’t alerted Divine Victoria, or she’d call for an Exalted March.”

His chest rumbled as he let out a low, dangerous chuckle. “I am a very lucky man, indeed,” he said softly as he bent his head to kiss her neck, eliciting a soft moan from her. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to express my sincerest gratitude to you for showing me mercy?”

“What did you have in mind?”

With his lips still on her neck, she felt rather than saw him smile.

*****

“Is it true Their Highnesses won’t be seeing us off later?”

Mother Eugenia dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, her slice of Mrs. MacKenzie’s fish-and-egg pie thoroughly demolished, just as two Antivan courtiers took their seats at the long oak table behind her. She craned her neck to hear them more closely, feigning an avid interest in the Blessed Age ceiling frescoes.

“Lady Aranza told me that Lord Montealegre was informed by Lord MacLeod—the rotund one who looks like a chicken—that the Princess was indisposed this morning. Lord Umbrosio and the rest of the Montoya family will be staying an extra day until their little girl gets better to bid her farewell. The poor lady was sniffling and sneezing all the way along the Minanter; her cold must have come back because of the dreadful weather and the exhaustion from yesterday.”

“Should we send her a get-well-soon present before we leave? Her favorite flowers, perhaps?”

“ _Vale_ , I’ll ask Ysabela or Tomás which flower she favors.”

“ _Espera un momento_. If only the Princess is ill, why can’t the Prince see us off, then?”

“Fucked if I know. Maybe he caught her cold. Maybe he can’t bear to leave her side. I'd wager on the latter, though; you saw the way he looked at her yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, anyone half-blind could have seen it. Positively cunt-struck. Can’t imagine why, though. _No te lo tomes a mal_ , she’s _striking_ , but not what I’d call _beautiful_. Not to mention that fiery temper, or have you forgotten the way she _crushed_ Ser Juliano’s spirit when he tried to court her?”

“ _Venga ya_ , you forget, the Prince is a connoisseur of feminine beauty. He must be tired of all these bland, generic court belles—Maker knows he had plenty of them in his youth. Now that he’s older, more mature, he craves something more interesting, something with a bit more… _spice_. And besides, Ser Juliano is an idiot of the highest degree; I think it speaks well of the Princess that she suffers no fools.”

“Hmm, true, true. _Tiene su aquel_ , I must admit. Something about her eyes, or her smile.”

“Impeccable fashion sense, too. Did you know she picked her own wedding dress?”

“ _Sí_ , fought her mother tooth and nail for it. She may be a newcomer, but Señora Callista did a fantastic job. The lace detail on the bodice in particular…”

Mother Eugenia pushed her plate away and rose from her seat, content to leave the Antivans to discuss the finer points of lace versus chiffon on silk. After all, she had gotten everything she needed from them and now had far more important matters on her mind.

_If I’m going to visit the Princess on her sickbed, then I’ll have to come up with some sort of recuperative gift, too—something beyond a mere blessing. I can’t very well give her flowers, too; the Antivans have already laid claim to her favorite bloom, whatever it is, so any flowers I present to the Princess will only pale in comparison._

“Oh! A thousand apologies, M-Mother Eugenia, I almost didn’t see you. P-pray, excuse me.”

Temporarily distracted from her dilemma, Mother Eugenia glanced down at the source of the sudden apology. Soralan Varos was a young, mildly jittery former alienage elf. When Prince Sebastian ascended the throne, he abolished the Starkhaven alienage and declared that elves, once second-class citizens, be welcomed in all folds of society—including the Chantry, thanks to Divine Victoria’s controversial decision to open the priesthood to all, not just humans. Soralan, well-trained in the healing arts care of his Dalish mother, was the first elf to assume the office of Royal Physician—a position he would not have even been considered for during the reign of Prince Sebastian’s father.

At the moment, Soralan was balancing a rather large bowl of cinnamon parritch in one hand and a plate piled heavily with blood pudding, eggs, bacon, and bannocks in the other.

_Amazing how elves can eat so much and stay so slender._

Mother Eugenia stepped aside wordlessly and let the encumbered elf pass while she turned her thoughts back to her current problem.

And suddenly realized the most perfect solution.

“Actually, Soralan, if you have a moment…”

*****

“R-really, Sebastian? While the sun is out?”

Sebastian stopped tugging at the silk ties around her waist and straightened, searching her face; the surprise was unmistakable in those large brown eyes. “Why, the better to see you with, _leannan_.”

Sarah tried to suppress her chuckle, but failed. “I’m sorry, but you sound like the wolf in that old children’s tale from the Anderfels. _The Girl with the Red Cloak_?”

The grin that spread on his face was the very embodiment of the word “wolfish”—it made her shiver. “I must admit,” he growled, “I am feeling rather… _ravenous_.” He punctuated his last word with one sharp tug, and the bow at her waist was undone. He was about to pull the halves of her peignoir open when an ingenious idea crossed his mind.

_Hmm. The better to see her with?_

He took her hand and led her to the foot of their massive four-poster bed of gleaming oak. “Wait here.”

Before she could ask why, he crossed the room to where a large, ornate gilt cheval mirror on wheels stood, next to the door to their antechamber. He carefully wheeled it across the marble floor until it stood a few feet in front of her. Satisfied with the mirror’s position, he moved to stand behind her. The mirror was tall enough that she could see well past the top of his head and the bed behind them.

“Hmph. The better to see me with, indeed,” she said, smirking at him in the mirror.

He laughed as he drew her against him, his rigid hardness pressing into the small of her back. “I just thought you’d like to see for yourself how breathtaking you are in the early morning.”

She met his gaze in the mirror and arched her brow, patently amused. “Oh? Am I?”

While she was clearly teasing, he knew that deep down, some part of her still doubted, still considered herself lacking in appearance because of what her mother and society made her believe. And he was all too happy to assuage those doubts.

“Indeed you are, _leannan_. Why don’t you let me show you?”

He slipped his fingers inside her peignoir and pulled it open, easing the silk confection off her shoulders until it slid to the floor with a quiet _swish_.

And felt the air catch in his lungs as she stood naked before him in the mirror.

_Oh Maker, how can such an exquisite creature be my wife?_

If he had thought her lovely by firelight, she was resplendent in the sunshine. He placed one hand on her hip and caressed the underside of her breast reverently with the other, glorying in the Maker-given wonder that was her soft, golden skin. “Maker’s breath, but where do I even begin to describe such loveliness?” he said softly.

She tipped her head back and to one side to look up at him, the mischief in her eyes impossible to miss. “Might I suggest you start from the top and work your way down?”

He smiled. “An incredibly sensible idea.” He bent his head and kissed her. It was his first time kissing her since last night, and her lips were just as soft and supple—just as irresistibly addictive—as he remembered, if not more so. His grip on her hip tightened possessively as he deepened the kiss, drawing out that adorable little squeal he loved so much.

By the time their lips finally parted, they were both out of breath. “But take your robe off first,” she said, her pink tongue gliding over her well-kissed lips.

He laughed. “Aye, bossy. Far be it from me to deny my lady such a simple request.” With an abrupt tug at his waist and a shrug of his shoulders, he divested himself of his midnight blue robe, leaving him as naked as she. She didn’t bother trying to suppress the sigh of admiration that left her lips as she let her gaze roam over her husband’s strong, well-built physique—or whatever part of it that wasn’t obscured by her own body in the mirror. He was taller than her by more than a head, so she could still see plenty.

“Now, from the top,” he said, his hand gathering her long, raven black hair over her right shoulder. “Let’s start with your hair. Do you see how your hair catches the light of the morning sun? How it gleams and shimmers? I’ll wager that a veil of the purest black silk would not shimmer as beautifully as your hair does, _leannan_.”

She blushed and nodded. Courtesy of her overbearingly critical mother, it had taken her a long time to even feel comfortable with her own body; her hair, which fell to her waist in soft, lustrous waves, was one of the few physical attributes that she had always loved. “Yes, I am rather fond of my hair.”

“As you should be. Next, your eyes.”

She blinked. Like her brother Tomás, she had inherited her father’s brown eyes; given how common the color was, she had always thought them ordinary. Not like Sebastian’s crystal blue eyes—so soulful and fascinating. “What about them?”

He gently brushed a stray lock of her hair away from her eyes. “Did you know, _leannan_ , that when you’re not playing Wicked Grace, your lovely eyes are incredibly honest and expressive? Perhaps it’s because they’re so large, but your eyes don’t hide how you feel, and I like that.”

She had not expected such an observation from him. “I, ah… I suppose I never noticed.”

“Then there’s your smile. If I were truly honest with myself, _leannan_ , it was your smile that first drew me to you.”

She had been told on occasion that she looked pretty when she smiled, but such comments had mostly come from annoyingly persistent suitors who wanted her vast dowry more than they wanted her. She had had absolutely no desire to look pretty for such people. For Sebastian, though…

He brushed his knuckles gently along her jaw and continued. “Yesterday, when our eyes met for the first time and you smiled warmly at me as you walked down the aisle at the Cathedral… Maker help me, I was enchanted.” He heard his own voice crack; he was usually never this forthright—never this openly vulnerable—about his emotions, but with Sarah, it felt oddly natural. Oddly right. “Call it blasphemy, _leannan_ , but I’d say your smile would rival the Maker’s own light.

Her smile came like a benediction and she shook her head. “Sweet Andraste, what have I done? I’ve corrupted a perfectly good Chantry boy and turned him into a blasphemer.”

He laughed. “I knew for certain I was damned the moment you stripped off your nightgown last night.” He let his rough, calloused hands roam over her naked body—her voluptuous hips, her plump derriere, her full breasts—relishing in the contrast that her soft, silken skin provided. His lovely little wife, Maker be praised, was not slim by any stretch of the imagination. “You have such a lushly beautiful figure, _leannan_. Your curves would make even the most prudish Chantry brother question his abstinence.” He leaned down until his lips brushed her ear and whispered, “And I am no prude.”

She let out a soft gasp as the questing fingers of his right hand found the wet, swollen flesh between her thighs. “M-Maker forbid anyone ever call you a prude.”

He smirked, pleased that he could draw such a response from her so easily. “I suspect, _leannan_ ,” he said as his fingers teased and traced her softness, “that I could spend a lifetime exploring the hills and valleys of your body and never grow tired of it.”

Her eyes grew wide, her breathing ragged and uneven as his fingers caressed and fondled her softness. “H-how can you be so sure? You’ve only had me once.”

He laughed at her choice of words. That was precisely what he wanted to do the moment he woke up and saw her lying next to him—have her. Take her. Possess her.

And in so doing, give her everything he was in return.

His fingers inched upwards to brush over her tight, swollen pearl, already erect beneath its hood, making her tremble against him. “Are you disappointed it was only once, _leannan_? Would you have wanted me to take you twice last night, if not more?” he teased.

The very idea of her husband making love to her over and over until she was incapable of coherent thought aroused her even more. “ _Sí_ , it’s included in your list of sins.”

With his right hand still weaving pleasure between her thighs, he took her left hand in his and placed a kiss on the gold wedding band—the delicate, halo diamond twin to his own ring of woven gold—on her third finger. “Come to our bed and I will make it up to you, _leannan_.” _Ten times over_.

He didn’t say those last words; he didn’t have to. She already knew. She swept passed him and set one knee at the foot of their colossal bed—they really needed to put a step stool here for her—preparing to climb up. Sebastian permitted himself to watch her crawl toward the head of their bed for a moment, her delectable bottom angled up invitingly toward him, before he closed one hand around her ankle, hindering her progress. She turned over and sat on the bed, looking puzzled—first at his hand on her ankle, then at him. He shook his head. “Not yet, _leannan_. First, we must get you ready.”

“Get me ready? What do y—”

She yelped when, without warning, he grabbed her other ankle and pulled her until she was perched at the edge of their tall bed, her short legs dangling above the floor. The gilt mirror he had moved earlier was once again directly in front of her.

She narrowed her eyes almost accusingly at him. “Oh, you wicked, wicked Chantry boy.”

He laughed as he dropped to his knees in front of her, the taut, sculpted muscles of his back on full display in the mirror behind him. Given their difference in height—and the impressive height of their bed—his face was mere inches away from her breasts when he knelt.

“Oh, _leannan_ , you have _no_ idea.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and, leaning forward, latched his mouth onto the pert nipple of one breast while his hand closed around the other. He had been aching to reacquaint himself with her succulent breasts all morning, and now that he had, he didn’t want to stop. Neither did she, if her pleasured moans and murmured words of encouragement were any indicator. In his mind, she was like a pagan fertility goddess of the Ancient Age, arching her back and inviting him to worship her—and he, her devoted priest. Worship her he did—quite assiduously—with his teeth, his tongue, his lips, his hands, and every soft sigh, every breathless moan that escaped her lips was a boon to his soul.

When he had had his fill—for the time being, at least—he kissed his way down her gently rounded stomach, stopping a few inches below her bellybutton. He set his hands on her thighs and spread her legs wide, draping one of them over his shoulder. “Watch yourself in the mirror, _leannan_ ,” he whispered as he left a trail of soft kisses down her inner thigh, knowing full well which ticklish spots would make her giggle if stimulated even just the slightest bit. “See how utterly ravishing you look when you fall apart.”

She forced her drooping eyelids open and did as he asked.

And didn’t quite believe what she saw.

What she saw in the mirror was not Lord Umbrosio’s little spitfire Sarah, or self-proclaimed bluestocking Sarah, or the least attractive Montoya sister Sarah. Those women she was familiar with. This woman in the mirror was a siren—a wanton seductress who could drive the rakishly handsome man in front of her mad from want with a simple moan.

It was ironic, then, how helpless she was against his seduction, despite the sexual power she wielded over him. All she could do was feel. And watch.

Watch her eyes widen as his skilled tongue glided languidly over wet, aching slit.

Watch her body tremble as he artfully flicked his tongue against her excruciatingly sensitive pearl.

Watch her golden skin turn rosy as he latched onto her pearl and suckled hungrily.

Earlier, she had called him a wolf in jest, but her husband took on the role like a second skin; her body was a feast for him and she felt thoroughly, utterly devoured.

“S-Sebastian,” she moaned in between shallow breaths, “I-I’m so c-close. I-isn’t it time for you t-to… to t-take me?”

She almost wept when his mouth left her, but he promptly replaced it with his thumb. He met her gaze, his clear blue eyes at once tender but resolute. “Not yet, _leannan_. This moment is for you. Take as much time as you need to feel as much pleasure as you can.” He murmured as he slid not just one, but two fingers inside her tight, slick sheath, curling them upwards in a come-hither motion. “Don’t worry about me. I am a patient man if I will it, _leannan_ , and I am willing to be _very_ patient with my wife.”

She mustered what energy she had left and laughed shakily. “ _Pues_ , how can I say no to that?” She waved him on, offering him a weak smile. “Continue with the pleasure.”

He was all too willing to oblige her. She ran her fingers through his thick auburn hair and clung tightly as he continued to lavish sensation after sensation on her. Every sob and shredded whimper drove him relentlessly, and before long she felt that sweet, familiar tension pool deep inside her, bit by bit, until it was too much to hold in.

“S-Sebastian!”

“Let go, _leannan_. You’re almost home.”

She could bear it no longer. With a shattered scream, she felt the tension inside her implode as wave upon wave of cataclysmic pleasure coursed through her body. She slumped back on the bed, sated and exhausted, her breasts rising and falling with each labored breath.

“That was… _amazing_ , Sebastian.”

“Watching you come is amazing,” he said, rising to his feet. He placed one knee on the bed, bracing himself on his arms as he leaned over her. “Tasting your release on my tongue is amazing. Hearing you scream for me is amazing.” He kissed her, letting her taste her own sweetness, before leaning down to whisper in her ear. “And you _will_ scream for me again.”

“A-again?” she squeaked, her eyes wide with incredulity.

He flashed her a wicked grin as he joined her on the bed, kneeling next to her prone body. “On your knees, _leannan_. Facing the mirror, if you please.”

She felt her body shudder in anticipation as she complied, bracing herself up on her hands and knees, her derriere angled up. “Like this?” she asked, craning her head to face him.

He grunted his approval as he grabbed two pillows from the head of the bed and wedged them underneath her hips, supporting them while angling them up even higher. Then, he reached for the bottle of dragonthorn oil from the previous night on the bedside table.

She turned her face back to the mirror and watched him anoint his heavy, turgid erection with the clear, viscous oil. He truly was a magnificent specimen in that regard; she still marveled that he had been able to seat himself fully inside her last night without any pain on her part.

“Is this not how dogs mate?” she asked as he took his place behind her, teasing her slick folds with the broad head of his cock.

He leaned over her back, supporting his weight on his palms, and whispered in her ear. “How _wolves_ mate, _leannan_.”

_Hmph. Trust this beautiful man to turn any jest on its head._

He let his large hands pay homage to the ample globes of her derriere before he clamped them around her blessedly wide hips, his thumbs coinciding with the twin dimples at the base of her spine. He smiled; it amazed him how, even in the simplest of ways, it appeared the Maker had molded them to fit each other perfectly.

He met her gaze in the mirror. “Ready, _leannan_?”

She pouted at him. “I’ve been ready all morning. Take me _now_!”

He laughed and gave her hips a squeeze. “Aye, bossy. My little she-wolf has quite a growl.”

Reminding himself that she was only one day removed from her virginity, he elected to start slowly. He held her hips in place as he moved his hips forward, easing himself inside her tight, scalding hot sheath. His eyes fluttered shut and he bit back a curse. His lust hadn’t subsided since last night—not by an iota; if anything, his desire for her only burned hotter.

_Maker preserve me, I will never tire of this._

“Sebastian,” she moaned, breaking him out of his trance, “M-Maker’s balls, y-you’re in so deep!”

He would have smiled if her molten heat hadn’t rendered his face hard and passion blank. Their current position, with her bottom held aloft and supported by the pillows, allowed him to penetrate her even more deeply than before and to stimulate the spongy sweet spot inside her channel even more powerfully. He pulled out of her sheath, almost to the tip, before he plunged back in—this time pulling her hips backward to him. The sudden, strong thrust, which was enough to make her scream for him again, was the first of many as he set a slow but forceful pace for their lovemaking.

There was something so erotically primeval about seeing his throbbing shaft disappear between the lush mounds of her bottom. About hearing the lewd sounds their thighs made whenever they met. About feeling the muscles in her sheath grip him tightly like a vise. It made the base, animalistic part of his nature—he supposed it could be a wolf—break free from his typically well-secured shackles, ready to devour his prey. But rather than shy away from the wolf, she called out to him, her body a potently effective lure.

“Look at yourself, _leannan_ ,” he growled as his hand slid from her hip to massage her swollen, exquisitely sensitive button. “Look at how beautiful you are when I _fuck_ you.” She was a wild, unruly mess, with her long black hair tousled over one shoulder and her skin flushed and dewed from their rigorous coupling.

But in that moment, the raw emotion in his voice cut into her deep, and she believed him.

She was _beautiful_.

His blue eyes were fixed on her face in the mirror with a gaze so piercing she couldn’t help but challenge it. The profound effect they had on each other was plain for both to see. It was written all over their faces and suffused in every movement of their bodies. There was no use denying—in this sphere, at least—that they had both found their other half. Their equal. Their mate.

That mutual realization lingered in both of their minds as they journeyed up the familiar peak together until they teetered dangerously at the edge.

“ _L-leannan_ , where do you want me t—”

“Inside, Sebastian! Always inside!” She was surprised by her own adamant declaration, but she could not deny herself the untold pleasure she had felt when her husband poured his warmth deep inside her the night before. It had felt natural, intimate, and unbelievably erotic.

“As my lady wishes.”

With his relentless devotion to her pleasure, she was the first to break. She screamed his name as she surrendered to the tides of ecstasy that swept her away to sweet, blissful oblivion. He wasn’t far behind her; he held out for as long as he could, riding through the powerful contractions of her climax until he gave in to his own seconds later. With one final, earth-shattering thrust, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and howled as he came, flooding her womb with his seed.

When he regained his strength, he gathered his boneless, thoroughly sated wife in his arms and spooned her, not quite willing to disengage from her heat just yet. He placed his hand on her soft belly and stroked; the wolf inside him wanted very much to see her heavy with child.

_Their_ child.

“If that’s how you do penance for lying about liking Camberto de Salle, or for not kissing me good morning,” she murmured, placing her small hand on top of his, “then feel free to do either for as long as we live.”

He laughed. “Perhaps just the first one, _leannan_ ,” he said, placing a tender kiss on her shoulder, “for I fully intend to kiss you good morning every day for the rest of our lives.”

*****

Lord Roderick MacLeod hurried down the hall that led to the east wing of the Winterstone Palace, his heavy boots thudding across the veined marble. He prayed to the Maker he wasn’t too late.

Just moments ago, he had been on his way to the Great Hall, eager for his customary slice of fish-and-egg pie and bowl of buttered parritch, when Soralan Varos, the royal family’s physician, intercepted him. More nervous than usual, Soralan relayed how Mother Eugenia had goaded him into crafting a curative tonic. Apparently, she intended to present the tonic to the Princess, whom she believed to be indisposed with a cold.

The Princess was not, in fact, actually ill. That was a fable he had concocted the night before and spread through the necessary channels earlier this morning: the palace cook Mrs. MacKenzie, the morning shift guards at the royal apartments, the Princess’ father Lord Umbrosio Montoya, and Lord Baltazar Montealegre, a senior Antivan nobleman who was a notorious gossipmonger, even by Antivan standards. Roderick also knew that Soralan might be approached by those who wished to inquire after Princess’ condition; as such, Soralan was the only one who knew the truth of his plan, and thus knew to find him if something went awry.

True, there had been no need for such a charade. He could have let the morning pass normally, as it would have had he not intervened.

But Roderick couldn’t help it. Not when the royal couple’s happiness was at stake.

Roderick had been concerned over the Prince’s standoffishness when his bride-to-be first arrived at the Winterstone Palace three days prior; he actively avoided her and deflected any suggestion that he meet her before the wedding. Roderick knew the Prince had harbored strong feelings for the Champion of Kirkwall, and that she was the reason he put off marriage for as long as he could. Truly, Roderick felt awful for making the Prince choose a wife before his heart was ready—he only wanted what was best for the Vael family and for Starkhaven.

But yesterday had given him hope.

He had known the Prince since he was a boy, and he had never in his life seen the Prince look so utterly captivated than when he looked at his Antivan bride. He could tell she was smitten with him, too, by the telltale sparkle in her honest eyes when she looked at him and the special smile that she bestowed only upon him.

The seeds of love were clearly there, and if Roderick could help nurture those seeds—if it meant engineering a full day where they could be alone together, free from royal obligations—he would.

And now, Mother Eugenia threatened to put his machinations to waste. The ambitious woman considered instilling the fear of the Maker as an art and used it to bully her way past almost anybody if she so desired. The guards wouldn’t stand a chance.

_No. Not if I can help it._

He was wheezing by the time he reached the double doors that led to the Prince and Princess’ chambers. The two guards he had talked to earlier this morning were flanking the doors, their eyes vigilant.

“Has anyone tried to see the Prince and the Princess this morning, Ser Gilroy?” he croaked out between breaths.

The older of the two guards saluted. “No, my lord. A footman came at six bells to deliver breakfast trays for Their Highnesses. He left the trays in the antechamber, as you instructed.”

_Oh, thank the Maker, I’ve come just in time_. “Good. Please make sure—”

“Ah, Lord MacLeod! Good to see you!”

_Andraste’s flaming arse._

The bane of his existence strode up to him, Soralan’s tonic in hand. “I’ve come to visit the Princess. I heard she was feeling unwell and decided to bring her this, and to bestow the Maker's blessing. I didn’t get to meet her personally yesterday, so I thought now would be as good a time as any to introduce myself.”

_I think not._

Roderick shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mother Eugenia, but I do not think that would be wise.”

Mother Eugenia held her head high and swept past him. “Nonsense. This tonic will help her get better, I’m sure it will,” she said. She moved to stand in front of the double doors and nodded haughtily at one of the guards. “Open the doors for the Maker’s servant, serah.”

Before the guard could even look to him for assistance, Roderick stepped in front of her, blocking the door. “The Princess has explicitly told me that she does not wish to see anyone in her current condition.”

Mother Eugenia frowned. “But why?”

“She does not wish to see anyone because… she’s far too conscious about her appearance!”

He saw the resolve in her eyes waver, just a tiny bit. _Good_.

“What do you mean?”

“The Princess fears that her cold has rendered her… unpresentable to polite company. Her complexion is sickly and pallid, her nose drips constantly, and she can barely utter two words without being seized with a hacking cough.”

“That’s… that’s horrible.”

_It’s working!_ “Yes. As such, she has refused to let anyone but the Prince, the royal physician, and myself see her all morning. I would hate to be the one to violate her dictates. She’d be mortified, and considering her Antivan roots, not inclined to forgive so easily.”

If Mother Eugenia had one weakness, it was her unwavering, almost irrational desire to gain the favor of the royal family, and in this situation Roderick was not afraid to abuse it. She gulped. “N-no, indeed not.” She glanced down at the bottle in her hand, then back at Roderick. “Would you see to it that she gets this, then?”

_Maker be praised!_ Roderick fought to restrain his smile. “Of course, Mother Eugenia,” he said, accepting the tonic with both hands.

“And make sure she knows that it’s from me?”

_Naturally_. “I will, Mother Eugenia. I am sure Their Highnesses will be very grateful for your thoughtfulness.”

She took one last look at the double doors and gave him a curt nod. “Thank you, Lord MacLeod. May the Maker watch over you.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

Only when she disappeared behind the doors to the north wing did he allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He turned back to the guards. “Please see to it that _nobody_ disturbs Their Highnesses, unless expressly permitted by them or myself. If anyone insists, tell them what I told Mother Eugenia. And as before, any deliveries for Their Highnesses will be left in their antechamber.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Roderick nodded his approval and looked at the bottle in his hand. He had no doubt that Mother Eugenia would ask the Princess later on if the tonic worked. He would have to tell the Prince and the Princess what he had done.

But it could wait for tomorrow.

Today was for the them.

**Author's Note:**

> I received so much encouragement from the people who liked my first story, so I worked really hard to make this second story to be worthy of the first. If you liked this story and think this pair deserves more, let me know! As always, both comments and kudos are much appreciated. :)
> 
> Notes on Languages  
> In the Dragon Age games, most characters from Starkhaven (e.g. Sebastian and Rylen from DA:I) have Scottish accents while most Antivan characters (e.g. Zevran from DA:O and Vincento from DA2) speak with Spanish accents—Vincento even says, "Maldición!" which is Spanish for "Damn!" As such, I've decided to base Starkic on Scottish Gaelic and Antivan on Castilian Spanish:  
> Los pies del Hacedor (Spanish) - the feet of the Maker  
> Leannan (Gaelic) - my dear; sweetheart  
> Vale (Spanish) - okay (in the same sense as "agreed" or "sounds like a good plan")  
> Espera un momento (Spanish) - wait a moment  
> No te lo tomes a mal (Spanish) - don't get me wrong; don't take this the wrong way  
> Venga ya (Spanish) - come on (used to express disbelief)  
> Tiene su aquel (Spanish) - he/she has a certain something  
> Sí (Spanish) - yes  
> Pues (Spanish) - well
> 
> Notes on Lore  
> While writing this story, I tried to stay faithful to the lore whenever possible. This includes references to other games in the series, codex entries, and word-of-God:  
> -I used Thedas' calendar, which contains twelve months: Wintermarch, Guardian, Drakonis, Cloudreach, Bloomingtide, Justinian, Solace, August, Kingsway, Harvestmere, Firstfall, and Haring. On a larger scale, the Chantry calendar is measured in Ages, spanning 99 years. The ages thus far are: Ancient Age, Divine Age, Glory Age, Towers Age, Black Age, Exalted Age, Steel Age, Storm Age, Blessed Age, Dragon Age. The events of this story take place in Kingsway 9:42 Dragon—a few months after the end of Dragon Age: Inquisition.  
> -Chanters can speak only in quotes from the Chant of Light. Transfigurations 12 in the Chant of Light is Andraste's prayer before the siege of Minrathous.  
> -We don't know what the royal palace of Starkhaven is called, but we do know that it's located in the heart of the city and it's made of marble. Winterstone Palace is just a name I made up.  
> -Frost-cough is an ailment mentioned in the Healer's Notes codex entry in DA:I. It appears to be fatal if not properly treated.  
> -Treviso, Seleny, Salle, and Rialto are all Antivan cities. Camberto de Salle is based on Camembert de Normandie because... I just really like camembert. The French poet Leon-Paul Fargue did describe camembert as "the feet of God" ("les pieds de Dieu"). I just translated the phrase ("los pies del Hacedor") and made his name sound Antivan (Leon-Pablo Ferrer). Fargue is a Breton surname that used to be given to people who worked in forges; Ferrer is the Spanish equivalent.  
> -What is Green? is the introduction to a lecture by Karsten Groeke, a philospher-poet at the University of Orlais. It starts out promising but goes downhill shortly after. It's one of my favorite codex entries from DA:I.  
> -The Exalted Marches are religious crusades led by the Chantry against those they deem heretical.  
> -Fish-and-egg pie is Starkhaven's most famous dish, made with three deboned fish, boiled eggs, dried fruit, spices, thickened cream, and a light crust. Brother Genitivi writes about it in a codex entry in DA2, and Knight-Captain Rylen talks about it if you choose a particular option in the Improving Morale war table operation in DA:I.  
> -In the Mark of the Assassin DLC, Sebastian says, "The Chantry has failed the elves. If we made them more welcome, they would not have to run." I imagine that if he became Prince, he'd want to do something about that inequality; in this story, he abolishes the Starkhaven alienage.  
> -[DA:I SPOILERS] In DA:I, one of the storylines focuses on the election for the new Divine. If you choose a particular candidate, she will open the priesthood to other races, let mages govern themselves, and rededicate the Chantry to the principle of charity.  
> -The Girl with the Red Cloak is based on Little Red Riding Hood. While its origins can be traced to multiple countries, the most famous version is the German one by the Brothers Grimm. The Anderfels seems to be (linguistically, at least) the DA equivalent of Germany.  
> -Featured in what might be one of the best cutscenes in DA:I, Wicked Grace is a card game that is won by having the best combination of card suits by the time the "Angel of Death" card is drawn.  
> -It bugs me that most fanfics don't mention proper lubrication. Lube has been around for thousands of years; the earliest record of lube mentions olive oil in Greece in 350 BCE. I imagine that the people of Thedas would have something similar. I decided to go with dragonthorn oil because in DA:I, it's used to make Antivan Fire. ;) I have an odd sense of humor.


End file.
